Into the Crossfire (8 page)

of her mind. "One of them knocked on the window as I took off the other day. I

remember thinking that I could have been in trouble if the car hadn't started."

He nodded. "I was afraid of that. There are things you can do to block the

escalation. Even better, there are things I can do..."

He left it hanging in the air.

Nicole closed her eyes in relief. Oh God, yes.

Let the Dreaded Dreadlocks problem go. Just tip it into those broad, tanned,

very capable-looking hands. There was no doubt that Sam could deal with the

punks with almost embarrassing ease, much much more easily than she could ever

hope to. He'd frozen them literally with a look.

The temptation to let him handle the two punks was so strong she had to dig

her nails into the palms of her hands to bring herself back to reality.

Having him take care of this problem for her was a huge temptation. But-she didn't know Sam Reston at all. He wasn't her partner in any way. If he warned

off the Creeps by acting as her proxy, and she never saw him again, they'd notice

and double the harassment.

"No," she said reluctantly. "I think I'd better handle it. Or try to."

He nodded, but didn't switch on the engine yet. He sat, big hands curved

around the steering wheel, looking at her.

"Tell you what." His gaze went past her to where two thuggish faces looked

out the porch window. He gave a sharp punch to the horn and the faces

disappeared, the dingy beige curtain fluttering back into place. "My brother Mike

is a cop. I can have him drive by a couple of times in a patrol car. Stop in front of

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your house and say hello. That way they know you have the cops at your back."

"That would be wonderful. Thank you." Nicole tried to keep the relief out

of her voice. It was a perfect solution. Enough of a deterrent to keep the two thugs

off her case, without it being directly linked to Sam Reston. It was an elegant

solution. "That sounds great. I'm very grateful."

"His name's Mike Keillor and he'll stop by tomorrow. I'll give you his

number."

"Perfect. I'll--" She stopped. "Keillor? I thought you said he was your

brother."

"He is, in every way that counts." Well, that was intriguing. Sam didn't

elaborate.

"Okay. Having him stop by a couple of times would be a big help. I think

those two are dumber than they are nasty, but--"

"You can be stupid and dangerous at the same time." Sam's mouth

tightened. "The world's full of very stupid and very dangerous ass--men."

"I grew up all over the world," she answered. "I know that deep in my

bones."

She smiled at him. He was still turned toward her, a set expression on his

face. However grim he looked, he'd actually been very kind, finding a good

solution to a thorny problem while allowing her to save face.

Instead of putting the car in motion, as she expected him to, he leaned

forward and gave her a kiss. A peck, really. But Nicole somehow found it hard to

breathe. She huffed out a little breath of air, opened her mouth--and nothing came

out.

She could object, of course. It was beyond forward to assume that he could

simply up and...and kiss her. Just like that. But Nicole knew herself and knew that

pretending to be outraged wouldn't work, because it would be a lie. The brief kiss

had been far from unpleasant. Unsettling and unnerving, but not unpleasant.

It had been like coming into fleeting contact with something immensely

powerful, something that could burn if the contact was too close. She could almost

hear the hum of power coming from him.

He started up the engine and was pulling out before she could react. He was

staring straight ahead but she felt he was aware of her every move. Soldiers

developed good situational awareness, as they called it.

"I've been wanting to do that since I first saw you moving in." The deep

voice was matter-of-fact, stating something obvious. He slanted a quick glance at

her, not grinning like a male who'd made an advance. No, he was deadly serious,

as if stating a military objective. "It was better than I imagined."

Nicole huffed out a breath from a suddenly tight chest. She had no

comeback, none at all.

New York

38

June 28

He was tall, blond and blue-eyed. Very fair, prone to freckling in the sun.

Courtesy, no doubt, of a Crusader who had raped one of his ancestors in Acre,

bequeathing the cowardly genes of the West. The cowardice had been bred out of

him by centuries of Arab warriors, but the coloring remained.

He didn't mind. It was a gift from Allah. His weapon against the infidels, to

be used to the fullest, imshallah. He'd been born for this. Born to fit in with the

unclean. Born for revenge.

Muhammed Wahed, aka Paul Preston, had the perfect cover. A Manhattan

stockbroker, one of the tens of thousands toiling in the money mills on Wall

Street. It was a genuine cover. He'd studied economics at Stanford and had made

more than $10 million in the past five years investing in futures. He was one of

few traders to profit in the recession.

Most of the money had gone to "the Cause." Freedom for Palestine. The

destruction of the Jews. And where better to make the money for that destruction

than in the belly of the beast, Manhattan?

His brethren in Hamas had worked hard on this. Twenty years training him

to blend in, and three years of planning, of procurement, evading the sensors of the

NSA and the spies who were everywhere.

Muhammed had worked a lifetime for what would happen over a few hours

in five days' time. The day before the celebration of the Fourth of July. An apt

moment to bring America down. By the Fourth of July, Manhattan would be a

wasteland and America brought to her knees.

The plan was perfect. Forty martyrs in a secret hold of a ship. Several

canisters of cesium 137, to be apportioned in equal parts to the martyrs. Forty

martyrs wearing shaheed explosive belts laced with radioactive cesium, detonating

at the same moment on July 3 throughout Manhattan.

Muhammed knew Manhattan, knew exactly where the financial nerve

points were. He'd pinpointed forty buildings, the very nerve centers of the

American and the world economy. Banks, brokerage houses, hedge funds. The

SEC. The Federal Reserve Bank of New York.

The martyrs didn't have to go up to the offices, necessarily, though

Muhammed had made appointments under false names with the CEOs and

directors and presidents for all of them. But if they couldn't make it to the heart of

the buildings, it would be enough to enter the lobbies and blow themselves up to

make the buildings uninhabitable. The tens of thousands of workers in the

buildings would have to exit from the irradiated lobbies and would never go back

to work again. Only hazmat teams would ever enter the buildings. By the next day,

all of Manhattan would be evacuated.

All the paperwork, the computers holding the economy together--gone.

Completely unusable. All the drones working in the financial mills--dying of

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radiation poisoning.

Perfect.

Finishing the work begun on September 11 and making the entire island a

radioactive desert for thirty years, the way the West had made his homeland a

desert.

Western capitalism would be no more.

Bringing the West to its knees has been his dream since he had been

recruited into the organization at the age of ten.

They'd found him in the camps, a homeless orphan, scrounging scraps from

the destitute, dressed in rags, this blond, blue-eyed, light-skinned freak.

They had taken him in, given him a family and a purpose. He was like an

arrow, aimed straight at the heart of the corrupt and licentious West. Hamas had

brought in tutors, instructing him not only in the language of the West, English,

but in its ways.

At times, he had sensed that they were afraid that he would succumb to its

lures, but there was no risk of that. None. There was no honor and no solidarity to

be found among the infidels. Muhammed's heart and soul belonged forever to

Hamas and to his people, to the day of his death.

They'd fought, his handlers and him. He wanted to become a warrior,

shaheed, a martyr. It was the purest life he could imagine, exacting vengeance

against the countries who were trying to crush Islam. Giving his life up seemed

like the noblest purpose he could imagine.

But it was felt that the gift of his coloring, his looks, was too precious to

waste. So Muhammed watched with sullen jealousy as other young men in the

secret training camps were dispatched to meet a noble warrior's death while he

spent his days and nights with tutor after tutor, instilling in him the ability to

infiltrate the enemy with ease, the better to destroy him.

English, French, literature, music, math, science. And the terrible pop

culture of the West, filled with shameless movies and music, whoreish women and

soulless men. His head was filled with the useless knowledge necessary to pass as

one of them. It turned out that he even had an aptitude for studies, which in his

secret heart filled him with as much shame as his appearance. His young heart had

ached to be just like his brethren, to move and live with them as one. But he'd been

told over and over again that Allah had singled him out for a special mission.

That which had singled him out as a homeless boy in the camps, made

everyone look at him with loathing and suspicion, was to be used in the name of

Allah to slay their enemies.

So Muhammed studied hard, becoming well versed in the ways of the

West. An identity was created: Paul Preston.

One entire edge of the Strip borders the Mediterranean. It was easy enough

to smuggle him out and get him into Italy, where he emerged in Rome with a new

US passport and a business-class ticket to California.

He was sent to Stanford to study economics, where he ex-celled. It was his

40

way of combating the enemy, by studying its face, understanding its corrupt black

soul.

He became Paul Preston, born of an American father and an English

mother. He graduated summa cum laude in economics, with a network of future

movers and shakers to use.

He was set up in Manhattan with a million dollars and orders to join a

brokerage firm. Hamas's backers had plenty of money, and had been willing to

write the sum off.

But it turned out that Muhammed was clever in the ways of the Great Satan.

The million soon grew to five, then ten. He developed a solid reputation as a very

good, very careful steward of money.

They bought him an apartment on the Upper East Side that was perfect for

someone of his socioeconomic status. Muhammed--now Paul--had a season ticket

to the Met, wintered at Vail and summered at Martha's Vineyard.

And all this time, his brethren's plans were developing, all the pieces being

put in place. Equipment bought or stolen, martyrs recruited. Radioactive material

slowly acquired.

Finally, finally, the time had come. Muhammed had begun despairing of

ever being of use to the Cause, when suddenly a message arrived. An encrypted

DVD in his mailbox, with instructions on how to destroy it once he had absorbed

its message.

How his heart had pounded, how proud he had been of his brothers, of the

plan a hooded brother had laid out on the disk. It was sheer genius.

Forty men, walking dirty bombs.

All those years of study and work would finally pay off. The Brotherhood

needed Muhammed's help in knowing where to aim these human daggers. They

needed names and places. Names and places only someone on the inside of the

finance industry could know.

Muhammed knew them, oh yes. Knew exactly where the dagger's point

should thrust. Which businesses to destroy--a surgical strike at the very beating

heart of the economy.

The entire financial district, gone, destroyed, rendered a wasteland.

Manhattan emptied, its inhabitants rendered radioactive lepers, condemned to die a

slow and painful death.

Perfect. A plan that would bring the West to its knees, in submission to the

Prophet's will.

It was all in place, all perfect. And now this. Muhammed frowned at the

printout of the decrypted email he'd just received.

Trouble.

A crew member of the Marie Claire, the ship carrying the martyrs, reported

that a member of the Marseille Port Authority saw the secret hold, had seen the

men, the shaheed belts and the canister with its universally understood biohazard

symbol and had grasped the significance. Luckily, the man had been terminated

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but had been alone in his office with his computer for a good five minutes.

Checking the server log, one message with attachment had been sent to

[email protected] in the time frame between the clerk's arrival at his office

and his death.

Close examination of the attachment showed merely a technical text

pertaining to plans to expand the harbor, but the message and its recipient had to

be destroyed.

Google told him that www.wordsmith.com was a translation agency based

in San Diego. Its owner's name was Nicole Pearce.